


The Way to a Mech's Heart (Is Through His Trigger Finger)

by FlaireMurasawa



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, SCIENCE!, Slow Build, lamborghini triplets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3840628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlaireMurasawa/pseuds/FlaireMurasawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker becomes the test driver for Wheeljack's prototypes.  Sunstreaker enjoys shooting things.  Wheeljack's just happy he hasn't run screaming.  Their working relationship starts growing into something else.  Originally posted to fanfiction.net in 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. T-Cog disrupter

I grew up watching the 1980s Transformers cartoons, so this story takes place in a universe formed of a fusion of cartoonverse, G1 and fanon. IDW not included. 

I stumbled across a Wheeljack/Sunstreaker fanfic, which got me thinking, “How would that pairing actually WORK?” At the same time, I was suffering trauma from playing Borderlands 2. Hence, this story was born from an unstable mix of brain chemicals and explosions.

Disclaimer: I do not own any iteration of Transformers—not the toys, not the comics, not the cartoons, not the anime, not the live action, not the swag. Please support the proper owners of the franchises. Except Bay. Don’t give him the money to screw up more of my childhood than he already has.

_________________

 

“Hey, Sunstreaker. I just finished a new blaster. Can test it out for me?” Wheeljack asked, proffering the small, unassuming metal object.

Never one to turn down a free weapon-of-possibly-explosive-destruction, Sunstreaker reached out. “Sure, I’ll take it out to the range right now.”

The engineer’s hand snapped back. “No, not the range. The only way to know how a weapon really performs is out in the field. I want you to try it out in battle, and tell me what you think.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Sunstreaker grinned. “The Cons won’t know what hit them.”

 

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe leapt away from each other as a laser blast struck the ground where they had been standing. The red twin spun around and brought down Mixmaster with a well-placed fist. Sunstreaker dodged another shot from Thrust, who was firing at them from the air in his jet mode. 

The conehead grew over-confident and flew within range. Sunstreaker whipped out Wheeljack’s gun and fired, hitting the jet squarely in the nosecone. Sparks erupted along the Decepticon’s body as he shifted into robot-mode.

Thrust yelped in shock. “What the-?”

Sideswipe ran, leapt off Susntreaker’s interlaced hands, and activated his jetpack. He was in the air and before Thrust even knew happened, Sideswipe punched him in the jaw.

 

“It worked good,” Sunstreaker reported after he had a wash and shine. “But what’s the point in having a gun that forces alts to robot mode and robots to alt mode? I only took down the Cons from sheer surprise.”

“It forces mechs out of their current transformation and into another one? Interesting…” Wheeljack mused, fins flashing as he started breaking down the weapon.

The yellow warrior paused in the doorway. “Wait, what was it supposed to do?”

“Cut off control to their limbs,” came the cheerful reply.

 

It wasn’t long before the engineer presented Sunstreaker with a modified firearm. 

He eyed it warily. “First things first, what is this supposed to do?”

“This,” Wheeljack declared proudly, “should overload your target’s t-cog, and rapidly force them in and out of alt mode. With any luck, they’ll get stuck halfway.”

Sunstreaker recalled every time Wheeljack accidentally blew up his lab or melted off someone’s arm. He was suddenly glad all that destructive force was on their side.

“Alright, I’ll let you know how it goes,” he said, giving the gun a casual twirl before pocketing it in subspace.

For once, the Lamborghini appeared more confident than he felt.

 

Sunstreaker cursed as he dodged behind a stack of concrete pipes and fired a few rounds over the top before taking cover. He ran along the length of the pipes, rolled out into the open and snapped out two more shots, hitting Shrapnel dead-on. The Insecticon went down, smoke curling from the scorch mark on his head. Sunstreaker kept running, winding up back-to-back with Gears.

The gun functioned…like a normal gun. Anything he hit was knocked back, but there was no surprise transformation or malfunction of any sort. Sunstreaker expressed his displeasure with extreme violence. As always. 

He aimed and pulled the trigger.

Click.

“Move!” he yelled, pushing a minibot into the dirt as a laser blast flashed over their heads.

“What the Pit?!” Gears shouted accusingly as scrambled to their feet.

“The stupid blaster’s out of juice!” He turned it over, looking for the cartridge as Gears provided cover fire. “What sort of genius makes a weapon without enough—”

The gun beeped.

And beeped again.

The beeps increased in frequency as the gun grew hot in his hands.

“Oh, slag!”

Sunstreaker hurled the device as hard as he could. It went flying over Gears’s head and blew up in Skywarp’s face.


	2. Waffle Iron

A/N: My portrayal of the Dinobots is based on the work of Nightwind on fanfiction.net. This chapter features the first of the guns ripped off from Borderlands 2.

 

“It’s a surprise,” Wheeljack had announced cheerily, fins blinking as he handed off his latest contraption. His previous baby had been mourned for half a second before the irrepressible engineer found new inspiration and returned to tinkering.

He should have demanded to know what it was. He should have refused to take it until he absolutely knew the risks involved. But Sunstreaker was a shoot first, ask questions later kind of mech, and when the base alarm went off at that exact moment, he grabbed the gun and ran to his post.

Even so, he hesitated before pulling the trigger.

 

“Oh man, it was great!” Sideswipe told Spike. They were waiting for Ratchet to finish his repairs on the other twin, who was offline. “I think Teletraan got some pictures, you have to see it!”

“See what?” Wheeljack enquired as he entered the medbay. His arms were loaded with medical supplies.

“That gun you gave Sunny, it--” the red twin sniggered, and then burst into full-out laughter.

“Is it true?” Spike asked. “That you made a gun that turns Decepticons into waffles?”

 

It seemed like the entire crew of the Ark had gathered around Teletraan, just to show the humans the footage of the previous battle. Spike, Sparkplug and Carly were sitting along Teletraan’s console, munching on popcorn. Sunstreaker staggered in last, his shooting arm in a sling. He was greeted with raucous applause.

“There he is!”

“Whooo, Sunstreaker!”

“Way to go!”

“Let’s get this over with,” Ratchet snapped crossly, entering just behind Sunstreaker. “I haven’t finished repairing his hand.”

Jazz grinned. “Trust me, doc, you’ll like this. Lights!”

The lights in the room dimmed, and show began.

Satellite view showed the Autobots and Decepticons engaged in a heated battle in an abandoned mining quarry. A flame flashed onscreen. 

“There!”

The camera zoomed in to show Breakdown flat on his back, with scorch marks in a perfect eight-by-eight grid burned onto his chest.

Carly and Spike guffawed. A few bots clapped.

Then Breakdown sat up and shot at the Lamborghini still standing over him.

The humans gasped in dismay as Sunstreaker fled—smack into Dragstrip and Long Haul.

Teletraan’s eye in the sky perfectly captured the moment as a line of flames discharged from Sunstreaker’s weapon and knocked Long Haul to the ground. There was just enough time to see the griddle marks on his chassis before Sunstreaker used said chassis as a springboard and fired at a seeker overhead.

The entire audience cheered. 

As the video played on, it became evident that a grudge was starting to spread amongst the opposing force. When Sunstreaker was fighting side-by-side with Hound, three Stunticons charged him. When the twins were in the air using their Jet Judo, Ramjet flew straight at Sunstreaker, who managed to barrel roll out of harm’s way. However, that didn’t stop Starscream and Skywarp from firing on him (and his hapless ride).

Sunstreaker was on a mission to tag every single mech in the Decepticon army, and he was succeeding. The problem was, aside from the distinct waffle iron pattern burned onto each of its targets, the gun caused no lasting damage. Each victim got right back up, freshly toasted and burning for vengeance.

Which explained why the Decepticons’ new prerogative seemed to be decimating Sunstreaker.

Carly hugged Spike’s arm as Sunstreaker weaved in and out of the Autobot front lines, who looked on in bewilderment as the Decepticons sprinted past them without stopping to fight. By this point, Sunstreaker had landed hits on every Decepticon he could find.

Except one.

Though his path was erratic as he dodged shots, tackles and a few boulders that Hook managed to lob at him, he was most definitely heading towards where Megatron and Optimus were locked in combat. The two leaders were so focused on each other that neither noticed the mayhem their armies had degenerated into. That also meant they did not notice when Sunstreaker got within range.

The muzzle flashed.

The humans gasped.

The grill of fire headed straight for the archrivals.

And Soundwave leapt in its path, getting a pattern of squares stamped across his chest.

Ravage dashed across the screen, jumped up and chomped down on Sunstreaker’s gun hand. Laserbeak rammed into his helm from behind, knocking the yellow Autobot forward. Just then, his pursuers caught up, and Sunstreaker vanished under a veritable horde of Decepticons.

The lights in the Ark came up. Amid the applause and whistles from the larger occupants, Sideswipe turned to Sparkplug, Spike and Carly.

“And that’s what happened.”

 

No one went into Wheeljack’s lab, unless they were extremely confident in their survival capabilities or looking for assisted suicide. However, it had been over a week, and Wheeljack still hadn’t presented Sunstreaker with a new firearm to test. 

“Wheeljack, you in?” Sunstreaker called, warily poking his head into the lab. He immediately gagged at a scent he could only hope wasn’t poisonous.

“Sunstreaker!” Wheeljack answered from within. “What brings you here?”

Confirming that nothing in the room seemed liable to spontaneously combust, the Lamborghini stepped all the way in, trying not to compare the sound of the doors closing behind him to that of a coffin being sealed. (In a way, it was. After a varying array of mishaps, the lab had been given blast shielding, airtight doors and its own circulation system.) He saw the engineer at his workstation, squinting at something that was giving off green fumes.

“It’s been awhile since you’ve given me something to test,” said the yellow mech, cautiously moving closer. There was still a chance the mystery gas could short out his wiring, or worse, corrode his paint.

“Yes, that,” Wheeljack replied, fins changing colors in a way that Sunstreaker didn’t like. “I almost got it. You see, burning the Decepticons gave me an idea! I remembered that the melting temperature of Cybertronians is much higher than what can be produced by mere fire…”

The green fumes were rising from a freshly-melted hole in the lab bench.

“…so I think that acid will work much better! I’ve been testing out a few theories of how to spray it in large quantities, and I just figured it out!”

Sunstreaker eyed the hole warily. Traces of green clung to its edges, smoking as the corrosive merrily ate through the metal. 

“So sit tight, and I’ll have this ready in a jiffy. I’ll have to name it after you come back from a successful test run. This is going to be more diabolical than Ratchet’s throwing arm,” he cackled. “Now where is that casing…?”

“Hey, Wheeljack, not to get in the way of science or anything, but shouldn’t you clean that up first?” Sunstreaker pointed at where the acid was continuing its downward journey.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, that. Could you grab me that bottle, right by your shoulder? No, the one above that--”

Wheeljack poured the contents over the spill. Sunstreaker cringed as it steamed and sputtered. 

“Annnnnnnd—ta-da!” the engineer announced. “Don’t go anywhere, this won’t take long.”

“Sure,” the yellow mech shrugged and looked for somewhere to sit. Wheeljack wouldn’t have some sort of evil nanobot minions running around, would he?

A startled yelp came from the other side of the room, accompanied by a clatter and an ominous hiss. Sunstreaker shuddered and pulled out a sketchpad. He didn’t want to know.

 

“‘Almost got it,’ my aft!” Sunstreaker whined as he blended another color on his palette. “I was in there the whole day!”

“Mmm,” Tracks mumbled, not even listening.

“And you know what? The crazy mech doesn’t even eat! He worked straight through dinner! I was so hungry I gave up and got myself some energon, and when I came back he was still there!”

“It happen,” Sludge nodded, adding some cross-hatching to his sketch. “Him Wheeljack work real hard.”

“He wasn’t even working. These blasters he makes are some sort of side project for him. He does it for FUN!”

“Mmm.”

The three Autobots were out in the desert near the base, working on their respective projects. Sunstreaker was painting the horizon. Sludge was sketching the horizon. Tracks was doing something completely different with his airbrushing tools. Every so often they got together to moan and groan about the pain of being an artist on a ship full of uncultured grunts—or at least, that’s what Tracks and Sunstreaker did. Sludge tagged along. Today, Sunstreaker’s enraged monologue crushed any attempts to change the subject.

“I brought him some energon and he didn’t even look at it! I checked this morning and it was still there! And he was still working!”

“Sometimes when him Wheeljack build something for them Autobots,” the Dinobot piped up, “him Ratchet tie him Wheeljack up, override him Wheeljack’s blast mask and force energon cube down his throat.”

The other two stopped what they were doing to process that mental image. 

Tracks spoke up. “Well, you should be happy he’s making sure that gun is one hundred percent finished. Imagine if it was only half-done? It’d blow up like all his other stuff.”

“Tracks, ‘all his other stuff’ is ‘one hundred percent finished’ when it blows up.”

“Well,” Tracks began to lay another layer of color, “That last gun was pretty good. It gave the Cons the worst tattoo job I’ve seen in my life.”

“It was supposed to shoot a restraining net. Wheeljack said he forgot that the net polymer was highly flammable.”

Silence.

“That could have been worse.”

“I know.”

“You think every single gun he makes can kill you?”  
“Absolutely.”

“Why do you keep testing things for him?”

“Because no matter how much Wheeljack’s things terrify me, the Cons have got it worse.”

 

A/N: People who excel in their art can recognize talent when they see it. This grudging respect is the only thing holding these three together.  
Based on Nightwind’s fic, “The Art in Me,” my headcanon is that Sludge’s strength is linework, and he works best in black/white and grayscale.


	3. Acidfall

A/N: This chapter features another product of trauma from Borderlands 2. This gun probably confused the heck out of anyone who used it for the first time.

“Yee-hah!” Sunstreaker charged into fray, test-weapon out and ready.

Half of the Decepticons facing him backpedaled to a safe distance. The other half opened fire with a roar.

“Whoo, I think they remember me, Sides!” Sunstreaker gloated, even as he fell back into a defensive position with his twin.

“No joke, Sunny!” replied Sideswipe, opening fire. 

The yellow Lamborghini brandished his latest gift. 

“Time to show them what this baby can do!” he shouted, and pulled the trigger with a whoop.

*PUNG* went the gun, and the shot flew harmlessly over the approaching Decepticons.

“What the Pit was that?” Sideswipe teased as he backhanded Wildrider.

Sunstreaker growled, aimed the weapon straight at Spyglass and fired.

*PUNG* 

The muzzle was pointed dead ahead. The acid round flew up at a perfect sixty-degree angle, arced back down and impacted several yards away. 

“Oh, for the love of—this thing doesn’t aim right!” he wailed, dismayed.

Sideswiped ducked a jab from the Stunticon and retaliated with a roundhouse. “Don’t hate the gun…hate the wielder.”

Sunstreaker groaned as he joined the assault. 

Together, they fought Wildrider off. Sunstreaker threw a snap-kick and the Decepticon leapt back.

“Now!”

Sideswiped jumped into the air, and Sunstreaker grabbed onto his arm. The yellow warrior swung his twin forward at the same time Sideswipe’s jetpack activated, and the red Lamborghini’s fist slammed into Wildrider with all the force of a jet-engine.

Sideswipe crowed over the prone Stunticon. “And that’s how it’s—holy slag!” he cut off as a shot just missed him. 

“Stunticons, to me!” Motormaster commanded.

The two Autobots turned tail and ran.

“Here, you try it!” Sunstreaker snapped, tossing the defective pistol to his twin.

Sideswipe deftly caught it, whirled around and popped three rounds at their pursuers.

*PUNG PUNG PUNG*

The volley overshot his targets by a distressing margin.

He threw it back to the yellow mech and drew his own blaster. 

“What’s WRONG with it?!”

They dove behind cover. Sideswipe peered over the top.

*BANG*

“Argh!”

Sideswipe’s gun went flying. He hit the ground, shoulder smoking.

“Sides!”

Sunstreaker made to stand, but Sideswipe yanked him back down. “Don’t! I didn’t see them. They’re hiding somewhere!”

Sunstreaker growled and shook him off, but nonetheless peeked cautiously over the top, scanning the battleground for any sign of their opponents. A flash caught his eye, and he barely ducked a hail of laser fire. 

“Now we know where they are, and they know where we are. We’re even!” he grinned cheekily. “No worries, bro, I got this.”

He sprung up, gun at the ready—

\--and fell backwards as another barrage from the Stunticons scorched the wall where his head had been.

Sideswipe snickered.

“Shut up!” Sunstreaker snarled. “You’re not doing any better!”

The other twin raised an eyebrow and gestured at his smoldering shooting arm.

“Arrrrgh…all I’ve got this is defective piece of scrap that only shoots up!” 

An idea suddenly formed in his processor. He turned, and pointed the gun at the wall blocking them from the Stunticons’ view.

*PUNG*

The acid round soared up over the wall and out of sight.

An undignified howl came from somewhere beyond the barrier.

Perfect.

Sunstreaker aimed the muzzle directly at the wall where the Stunticons were lurking, and rapidly tapped the trigger. Each missile shot up into the air and dropped down right over the Stunticons’ heads. 

“Waaaaagh!”

 

The Autobots returned to the Ark after another successful counter-attack. The engineer was heading for his workshop when he heard someone call.

“Wheeljack!” 

He barely had time to turn around before he was clapped on the shoulder—hard.

“Wheeljack, you--” Sunstreaker grinned maniacally, twirling his gun around his finger, “—are an insane, wonderful, moronic genius! This is the most retarded blaster I’ve ever used! You’re never getting this back!”

With that, he dashed off in the direction of the washracks, leaving a bewildered Lancia in his wake.

 

The Decepticon plot of the week involved JPL and hostages, so Optimus commissioned Wheeljack to whip something up that was one hundred percent nonvolatile. If anyone was going to have difficulty with that order, it was Wheeljack. 

Frontliners like the twins weren’t needed in this kind of situation, so they were on standby at base. Sunstreaker finished his energon ration and was about to leave the mess hall, when he remembered what Sludge told him. The report of the hostage situation had come in the early afternoon, and it was currently evening. Thinking about it, the engineer must have been working all day.

Sunstreaker grabbed another cube of energon and headed for the lab. There was no answer at the door, so he let himself in. Sure enough, Wheeljack was at his workstation, surrounded by various pieces of clutter. A mechanism of some sort was taking shape on the bench in front of him.

“Hey.”

The engineer frowned, grabbed a circuitboard, and held it up to his creation-in-progress. His headfins flashed, and he began wiring them together.

No one ignored Sunstreaker. Despite the dangers of navigating the literal mine field that was Wheeljack’s lab, he strode up to lab bench and plonked the cube right next to the mystery device. “I said ‘hey.’ When’s the last time you ate?”

“Hn? ” Wheeljack’s optics remained focused on his work. “Can you hand me that tungsten block?”

With his eye for detail, Sunstreaker quickly found the item in question. It was obviously used in previous experiments, as it more closely resembled a potato after it’s been used for potato gun ammo than an actual block. “Drink your cube and then you can have this.” 

Wheeljack finally looked up. “Not funny, Sunstreaker. I need that.”

“You need to eat. I know you don’t eat when you’re working, so drink that,” he gestured at the energon cube, “and I’ll give this back.”

“There’s no need to be childish.”

“Then drink your energon like a good sparkling.”

Cue staring contest.

Wheeljack groaned, snatched up the cube and opened his blast mask. “Since when did my eating habits matter to you, anyway?” 

Sunstreaker placed the block on the countertop, as promised. “Since you had me testing out your firearms, I’ve almost been short-circuted, blown-up, ripped apart and mangled. I think it’s best for my paint job if you’re firing on all cylinders when you build things.”

The engineer placed the cube back down, empty. “That’s nonsense. I don’t allow my fuel levels to affect my genius.”

“Says the mech who made a gun that couldn’t hit the broad side of Motormaster.”

“Yes, and I’m the only Cybertronian in the galaxy who can make a gun like that.”

Sunstreaker laughed.

The next day, Wheeljack’s shrink ray saved the lives of hundreds of humans. Nothing blew up.

 

Wheeljack found Sunstreaker lying the floor, with Red Alert sitting on him. The security officer looked decidedly uncomfortable, probably due to the fact that Sunstreaker’s face was buried between his legs.

“W-Wheeljack!” Red Alert stammered, stumbling off of the other Lamborghini. “What are you doing here?”

“I have something for Sunstreaker here to try out,” the engineer stated, nonplussed. “But if you’re busy, that’s fine.”

Sunstreaker rolled his eyes and sat up. “Me and Red were just sparring. Show me what you got.”

 

“How come you never take those things to the range first?!” Sideswipe yelled over the sounds of close-range laser fire.

Sunstreaker used the remaining half of his blaster to gouge a handhold onto the surface of Dirge’s jet mode as the Decepticon accelerated to Mach 3. “It’s more fun this way!”


	4. Impact

A/N: more use of Nightwind’s Dinobot fancanon here, featuring her portrayal of Swoop. I also use a Bayverse/Animated/Prime trend, in that Cybertronians have retractable battle masks, and it is just a matter of how often they use them. 

 

“Pass me the acetone.”

“Get it yourself.”

Sunstreaker couldn’t name half the things in the lab, but he knew what THAT was. Wheeljack shrugged, grabbed the bottle, and poured.

BOOM!

Sunstreaker snatched up the fire extinguisher and doused the explosion site.

“Excellent!” Wheeljack gushed. “Now I just need to properly contain that reaction!”

That last explosion was a miniature mushroom cloud. The longer Sunstreaker spent in the lab, the more thinking he did. These thoughts tended to center around the thin line between firepower and paint-preservation.

“Come here for a second. Help me hold this in place.”

Wheeljack guided Sunstreaker’s hands, and once his grip was secure, proceeded to tinker with another part of the mechanism.

A spark flew. “Huh. That’s not supposed to--”

Sunstreaker’s blast mask slammed up at the same time the device exploded. 

“Funny...” 

Wheeljack inspected the shattered remains of his work while Sunstreaker frantically combed over his body for any superficial damage.

Shrapnel? None.

Scorch marks? Clean.

Scratches? Looking good.

His face?! He retracted his battle-mask and patted his cheeks, chin and nose.

He needed a mirror. Locating an extra shiny sheet of metal, he checked his reflection.

Perfect.

He checked his reflection again.

Still perfect.

“Aha!” Wheeljack pointed at the plate Sunstreaker was holding. “That’s exactly what I need for the casing!” 

If anything could be said about the engineer, nothing discouraged him. Sunstreaker surrendered the material, parked himself by the fire extinguisher, and pulled out his sketchpad. He was in the middle of a sprig of large blossoms—that he was going to color brilliant orange and red—when Wheeljack called for him.

“This will go faster with the two of us. I need to you wire these up.”

The components came together quickly, and in no time at all they had completed the handle and body of the blaster. 

Wheeljack chortled and wrapped his digits around the grip. The gun initiated a transformation sequence, the sides folding out—and then stopping. Wheeljack’s fins blinked as the machinery struggled and fluttered. It reverted back to its original configuration and unfolded again, jamming in the same place. Metal wailed and the whole thing gave a mighty shudder.

Sunstreaker barely had his blast mask up before it exploded.

Many hours (and explosions) later, Sunstreaker trudged into the mess hall. It was late, but there were still a few Autobots hanging around. He straightened up and made a beeline for the energon dispenser. As he filled two cubes, he noticed a few other mechs—smirking at him? He studied each of them in turn.

Bluestreak quickly looked away.

Bumblebee covered his grin and pretended to say something to Mirage, whose shoulders were shaking. 

Cliffjumper burst out, “Hey, Sunshine, what’s wrong with your face?”

Before he could stop himself, Sunstreaker’s hands flew up to feel for damage, but his fingers clanked against something smooth and hard.

His blast mask was still up.

Sunstreaker retracted his mask to reveal a scowl. He stalked over to Cliffjumper’s table.

“Nothing that’s going to be as wrong as YOUR face when I’m done with you!”

 

Sideswipe dove into the haven formed by piled rubble and fallen satellite towers. This battleground was cluttered with buildings and various structures—previously a human facility, abandoned when they discovered it was built on top of caverns containing a volatile mixture of gases. The Decepticons thought it could serve as a well of energy, and here they were. Sideswipe would never admit the battle was going badly, but with him and his twin huddling together behind debris, low on ammo and alone, they might have been losing their touch. 

He scurried to where Sunstreaker was sitting against a building.

“Lemme look at that,” he said, prying Sunstreaker’s oil-soaked hands away from his side.

The red Lamborghini took a sharp breath. A chunk of his brother’s abdomen had been completely blown away. 

“Okay,” he said, inspecting the damage more closely. “Okay, it’s not so bad. Give me your laser gun.”

“Lightdown,” Sunstreaker corrected, handing it over. It was the second gun Wheeljack had given him that was actually useful. He named the first one Acidfall. This second one ran on the user’s energy, and could cut through Decepticons like butter. Unfortunately, it cut through everything else too, and required more finesse than Sunstreaker was usually willing to employ. On the other hand, it was pretty—the gun was built sleek, shiny and dangerous.

Careful not to point Lightdown at any parts Sunstreaker would like to keep, Sideswipe began welding. 

“How much ammo you got left?” he asked.

“Nothing except Lightdown,” Sunstreaker wheezed. “You?”

“About half a clip. Any grenades?”

“Not even a flash bang.”

The Autobots had underestimated the Decepticon presence at the site. When they arrived, a horde of Decepticons swarmed out from underground, where they had been manufacturing energon. Outnumbered, most of the Autobot forces fell back, while some of the more hotheaded frontliners (not naming any names) stubbornly pushed ahead. From the sounds of the battle raging outside their hideaway, no one was coming to help them. 

Not that they needed it. 

Sideswipe grabbed a cement block and broke it open against the ground, exposing the rebar inside. He ripped it out and proceeded to tie something off just above Sunstreaker’s waist.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Sunstreaker acknowledged when the leaking stopped.

“I picked up a couple things from Ratchet. Unlike you, I’m usually conscious when we’re sent to the infirmary,” teased Sideswipe.

Sunstreaker smirked at his brother. “That’s because I’m the brave one.”

“No, it’s because I’m the smart one.”

They looked up as a sonic boom broke overhead. They looked back at each other, all signs of jest gone.

“It’s a quick patch, but you should be good,” Sideswipe informed him. “This will definitely last until we get back behind our lines.”

“Alright. Turn around.”

Sideswipe obliged, and Sunstreaker prodded at the sparking gash in Sideswipe’s jet pack.

“It doesn’t look like it’ll blow up. Give it a try.”

Sideswipe raised an eyebrow.

Sunstreaker growled. “I’ve picked up a few things too. From Wheeljack. I saw him blow a gun up ten different ways yesterday, so I think I can tell when something’s going to explode.”

He paused. Face blank, Sunstreaker pulled out a gun. “Sideswipe, give me your blaster.”

“Sunny, what are you doing?” the red twin asked warily, but handed it over nonetheless.

Sunstreaker quickly disassembled Sideswipe’s weapon, then moved onto his current one. It had served him well—it used rounds with relatively little explosive force, but shot them out of the barrel with all the power of an atom smasher. Too bad it needed to go.

“I’m making us a way out,” Sunstreaker replied. This sort of firing mechanism with this sort of ammo with this signal delay…he held up the resulting contraption. “I’m going to throw this, and we’re going to run. Ready?”

Sideswipe nodded, and crouched so that Sunstreaker could lean on him.

Sunstreaker twisted together two wires and hurled the makeshift bomb as far away from them as he could. “Go!”

BOOM!

A mushroom cloud erupted above the battlefield.

 

“All finished.” First Aid removed the last vestiges of Wheeljack’s current experiment from the Lancia’s torso. “You just need a repaint and you’ll be as good as new.”

“So this is why Tracks complains so much about you,” Sunstreaker remarked. He had a front seat to the show, literally—he was relegated to a chair directly across from the repair table.

“Have you looked in a mirror? You’re not exactly a pristine flower yourself, Sunshine,” Wheeljack snarked back.

In fact, the mirror Sunstreaker hung beside the lab door had been caught in the blast, along with the room’s two occupants. Sunstreaker himself sported patches where the reagent had melted and fused with his chassis, and his arm was leaking energon. 

Sunstreaker’s expression lost all semblance of playfulness, and he stalked to Wheeljack’s bedside. “Yeah? And whose fault is that? Yours. And you know what I do to bots who dare ruin my beautiful paint?”

The whole Ark (and most of the Nemesis) knew about Sunstreaker’s obsession with his paintjob. With his weapons still offline from the procedure, the only thing standing between himself and the narcissistic mech was First Aid (the pacifist). It didn’t take a genius to know he was screwed. 

The fact that Wheeljack was a genius just meant he could envision his fate with more anatomically accurate detail.

The frontliner loomed over the engineer. “Since I’m a generous guy and all, I’ll let you live.”

Wheeljack’s headfins blinked.

“But--!” Sunstreaker jabbed a finger into a fresh weld on Wheeljack’s chest, eliciting a hiss from the Lancia. “In return for sparing your life, you have to go down to the mess every so often and get your own energon. I can’t bring you cubes every time you need your tank filled. You need to eat properly, that way this,” he motioned to the damage on his own chassis, “doesn’t happen again. I might not be so merciful the next time I get blown up because of you.”

Wheeljack dumbly nodded. Sunstreaker had invaded his personal bubble at some point, and their faces were uncomfortably close.

First Aid chose that moment to chime in. “Well, as I was saying,” he chirped, “Wheeljack, you’re free to go. Sunstreaker, it’s your turn.”

“Oh, no.” Sunstreaker abruptly moved out of the Lancia’s personal space. “This is nothing. I’ll take care of it myself.”

He made for the exit and came face-to-face with Swoop.

Relief spilled across the Protectobot’s features. “Swoop, you’re just in time for your first patient.”

 

“Blue! Just the mech I’m looking for!” Sunstreaker clapped Bluestreak on the shoulder. “Wheeljack gave me this sniper rifle, and I thought it was more your area—”

“Oh, Pit no!” the Datsun exclaimed, flailing his arms in a frantic crossing motion. “I am not touching anything that comes out of that lab!”

“Don’t be so uptight,” Sunstreaker scoffed. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I’ve had enough adventures with Wheeljack’s tools of death, thank you very much!” Bluestreak retorted. “Who do you think was his crash test dummy before you?” 

It turned out the list of victims included a good number of the Autobots’ finest. Before Bluestreak, it was Cliffjumper, and Trailbreaker before him, Brawn, Bumblebee, Jazz and Hound. Not a single one of them could last more than two guns before quitting. The conversation continued into the mess hall, where they joined Red Alert and Inferno. The general consensus was the fact that Sunstreaker had stuck with Wheeljack for seven guns and counting was a good indicator of his hard-headedness. The connotation of “hard-head” was still being debated when Wheeljack walked through the door.

Sunstreaker smiled and waved. Wheeljack gave him a friendly nod, filled up an energon cube, and went to sit with Hoist and Grapple.

“Sunstreaker? What’s wrong?” Red Alert asked when he saw the look on Sunstreaker’s face. 

Sunstreaker pushed his seat back and picked up the remnants of his energon ration. “I’ll talk to you later.”

His friends stared in bewilderment as Sunstreaker walked away.

Hoist and Grapple were even more surprised when one of the hottest bots in the Ark parked himself at their table.

“Hey, Jack.” Sunstreaker cast a discerning eye on his companions. “Geeks.”

Grapple’s mouth hung open. Hoist elbowed him.


	5. Firecracker

Sniper rifle. Stupid sniper rifle. The Autobots were called to Washington where the Decepticons were trying gather ores brought to the Earth’s surface by an active volcano. The battleground was hot (literally) and Sunstreaker was stuck, because the only high point from which to snipe from was an erupting volcano. 

He hoisted up the rifle and aimed.

A shadow fell over him.

“Die, Autobot!” screeched Kickback as he descended in insect-form. Sunstreaker leaped out of the way as Kickback hit the ground hard. He wasted no time shifting into robot-mode and charging the Autobot.

Too close. Sunstreaker flipped the rifle so he was grasping the barrel, and swung it at the Insecticon’s head. 

 

“This is your fault. I demand you fix this,” Sunstreaker seethed when Wheeljack entered the medbay.

The Lamborghini held up his hand. Metal shards were embedded in his palm and fingers. “I tried to smack a Con with this laser-tag reject of yours, and the thing shattered. Why does the Marvel versus Capcom tourney have to be today? I can’t play like this!” he wailed.

To his credit, Wheeljack didn’t turn tailpipe and run, but he did approach the yellow mech warily. “Let me have a look.”

Grumbling, Sunstreaker allowed Wheeljack to inspect the damage. Although all feeling to that hand was shut down, Sunstreaker winced as Wheeljack manipulated it. 

“Ah, I didn’t take those sort of temperatures into consideration.” His head fins pulsed. “I’m sorry.” 

“‘Sorry?’” Sunstreaker snorted, not mollified in the least. “You owe me a lot more than just a ‘sorry.’ I need a whole new hand!”

“Then I’ll make you a whole new hand!”

Wait a minute.

“I will make you the greatest hand ever. We can store a small incendiary missile in the thumb, a laser in the second finger, energon goodies in the third, a sonic emitter in the fourth, a spy robot in the fifth, and…hm…you’re going to need more fingers…”

Every single one of Sunstreaker’s systems froze up. Wait wait waitwaitwait-!

“If you need it ready by tonight, I better get started right now.”

“Wait!” Sunstreaker croaked. “You know what? It’s fine. I overreacted. Let’s leave the repairs to the professionals.”

Wheeljack’s fins blinked rapidly. “But they won’t be finished in time for the tournament.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I owe you for putting your spark in danger all the time.”

“My spark’s always in danger.”

“I’ll make you one anyway. Think of it as a gift.”

“Stay away from my hand, Wheeljack.”

“Come on, it’ll be awesome!”

Sunstreaker spied the nearest medic and yelled. “Swoop!” 

Seeing the medic-in-training bear down on him with all the ferocity of the Dinobot he was, Wheeljack dashed for the exit.

 

The Lamborghini brothers were conspiring in their shared quarters—Sideswipe pacing the room, while Sunstreaker lounged on the berth. For once, they were off-duty at the same time. Prowl usually drew their schedules so they hardly got more than twenty minutes of down time together, in order to prevent the following scenario.

“We should blow up the washracks.”

“Never! Then where am I supposed to get clean?”

“We can rewire all of Red’s cameras to tune into earthling baby shows.”

“Too tedious.”

“Can you make it so that the energon dispenser sprays whoever tries to use it?”

“That’s beneath my talents.”

Sideswipe threw his hands up in the air. “Fine, Sunny, we’ll have it your way! Let’s just put a bucket of paint over the door of the rec room and see who it falls on!” 

Sunstreaker blinked. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“I knew your standards were low, but that not that low,” Sideswipe scoffed.

“Shut up and pay attention. This is what we’ll do.”

Sunstreaker sat up and sketched a rough diagram on his datapad. The duo took a minute to appraise the plan.

The red twin’s gaze shifted to look at his brother out of the corner of his optic. “You’re gonna get the parts from Wheeljack’s lab?”

The yellow twin smirked, still focused on the datapad. “Where else would I get them, Sides?”

The next morning, the denizens of the Ark were terrorized by a series of small explosions. The miniature charges, along with motion detectors and randomizer chips that ensured the traps wouldn’t be triggered all at once, were set above every common doorway and an assortment of private ones. After each doorway was passed through a certain number of times, its charge would go off with a loud “Bang!” At best, the Autobot walking under the door would get a good scare, whether or not they outwardly showed it (i.e. Mirage). At worst, they would end up in full system lockdown (i.e. Red Alert). Either way, it was hilarious.

 

The day after that, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were in a snowstorm in Siberia.

“I’m not made for this terrain!” Sunstreaker whined loudly. “My paint! My undercarriage!”

“This wouldn’t have happened if that charge didn’t go up in Hound’s face,” Sideswipe complained right back. “Now he’s in the medbay getting the dents knocked out of him, and we’re here on his assignment! What sort of psycho volunteers to come to this sort of place?”

Sunstreaker yelled over the howling wind. “It was Prowl’s fault for giving him the bright idea to check the doorways for more charges. They’re motion-activated. What did he think would happen if he tried to remove it?”

The red twin sniggered. “It’s Prowl’s job to think. Primus knows he can’t shoot the broad side of the moon.” 

“Don’t tell him that. He might use us for target practice.”

“I think I’d rather have Ratchet reformat me into a toaster.”

They gave a synchronized cringe as they realized the truth in that statement.

“What do you think Wheejack’s going to do to you when he gets back? You know, for taking his stuff,” Sideswipe mused.

There was no response but the sound of the wind and wet snow thudding against their exteriors. 

Silence between the twins was rare. Sideswipe took it to mean the worst. “Oh no. What did he say?”

“He…” Sunstreaker began slowly. “He thought it was great. He said I should try blowing things up more often.”

If Sideswipe had any breath to hold, he would have let it out right then. “Great! And do you still have access to his lab?”

“Yeah, but it gets better.” It was a good thing Sunstreaker’s face wasn’t visible in his vehicle mode, because his expression would have sent even Starscream running for the hills. “Jack said he’ll help us out anytime.”

 

A/N: Prowl’s shooting capabilities are a pet peeve of mine. 1) in the episode where Chip takes over Prowl’s systems and does the shooting for him, doesn’t it seem like Chip is a much better shot than Prowl ever was? And 2) in the movie, on the infamous ship attack, Ratchet’s duel wielding pistols seem more effective than Prowl’s single gun. I just feel like Prowl’s specialty is strategizing, but in battle he’s actually kind of lousy.


	6. Slag

A/N: Today we features the slag-type weapons from Borderlands 2

Brawn swung around and shoved Brawl straight into the path of Ramjet’s kamikaze dive, and the two went down on impact. Sunstreaker, who was the original target of the jet’s suicidal attack, flashed a grin in thanks before he was tackled by Blitzwing. He was face-to-muzzle with the triple-changer’s cannon, and before he could react, Blitzwing was jerked up and the blast missed him by inches. With one more pull, Warpath and Ironhide successfully hauled the Decepticon off their compatriot.

Sunstreaker rolled to his pedes, seeing red. He’d probably had paint scraped off his back from that move! 

“Hold him there!” he shouted, brought his newest blaster to the forefront, and pulled the trigger. A wide spray of what appeared to be purple goo emerged from the muzzle, and splashed across Blitzwing’s chest and shoulders. The ooze evaporated almost instantly, and a mix of shock and relief flashed across the tank-plane’s features. 

“Hah! Is that the best you--”

Ironhide socked Blitzwing right in the spark chamber.

The triple-changer collapsed with a gurgle, the shape of the van’s fist imprinted deeply into his chestplate. 

At the others’ shocked expressions, Sunstreaker explained, “That stuff will soften up anything it hits. Temporarily.”

Ironhide checked to see if any of the substance transferred to his hands.

Brawn whistled. “I have got to get me one of those.”

 

Although the Decepticons were successfully beaten back, the berths in the Autobot medbay were full. First Aid wheeled Brawn past Sunstreaker, who held up a mostly-melted hand in greeting. 

“You still want one of these?”

Sideswipe, in the berth beside Sunstreaker, rubbed his temples. “Only you would be in here not because some Con shot you, not because you were trapped in a natural disaster, but because your own weapon melted down in your own hands!”

“Not just me,” Sunstreaker grinned, as he caught sight of Wheeljack making his way towards him. “Take a look at this guy, Sides. When he stays at base, he blows himself to pieces. Send him into battle, and he comes back without a scratch!”

Indeed, Wheeljack didn’t bear more than a few dents and tears. “Sunstreaker! How did my molecular disruption compound work?”

“See for yourself.” Sunstreaker brandished his mutilated appendage.

“Hmmm.” Wheeljack inspected the damage. “Is there anything left of the gun?”

Sideswipe rolled his eyes.

Swoop rolled a cart of medical supplies between the berths. “What him Sunstreaker do now?”

The Dinobot leaned over to take Sunstreaker’s arm, but Wheeljack waved him off.

“Wait just a minute Swoop, I want to get a better look at the effects of the compound--”

“Him Sunstreaker need full replacement. Again. Him Wheeljack bring spare servos and me Swoop give melted part to him Wheeljack.”

“But-”

Swoops wings twitched a few degrees upward.

“-I’ll be right back.”

“Swoop, are you going to do me too?” Sideswipe asked.

“Yup. Him Sideswipe after him Sunstreaker.”

“I think you’ve been our medic the last five times we were in the medbay.”

“Him Ratchet say him Sideswipe and him Sunstreaker good practice.”

Sunstreaker attempted to sit up. Swoop used one arm to slam him back down.

Figuring escape was a futile endeavor, Sideswipe made himself comfortable.

 

“I found Grapple, just tell us what you need--”

“What’s HE doing here?!” Grapple screamed in outrage.

Perceptor tilted his head. Hoist facepalmed. 

Sunstreaker uncapped a bottle of benzene and glowered.

“I already told you, Sunstreaker’s been helping me out in the lab for awhile now,” Wheeljack offered as way of explanation. “Hoist, help Perceptor with the antidote. Grapple, I want you to figure out the dispersion system.”

“He knows nothing about engineering!” Grapple sputtered.

“He learns fast, has steady hands and an eye for detail. Sunstreaker, put that benzene down and get me my electromagnet.”

The construction bot continued protesting. “But he’s a grunt! A punk! A Grade A i—”

“You’ll shut up right now if you know what’s good for you, freak,” Sunstreaker growled, brandishing the magnet tool in Grapple’s face.

“Sunstreaker! I need that electromagnet. Grapple, get to work,” Wheeljack snapped. “We need to figure out what the Decepticons were planning to do with this, and how to stop them if there are any more.”

“R-”

Hoist swiftly elbowed Grapple, and gave him a pointed look.

“Right. Get out of my way,” Grapple muttered, and stepped up to the lab bench.

Hoist smiled apologetically at Sunstreaker, when something in Wheeljack’s corner exploded. Without turning to look, Sunstreaker produced the extinguisher from thin air and swiftly put the fire out. 

 

Let it never be said that the Ark team couldn’t throw a party. Following a human tradition imparted to them by Sparkplug, they held group creation-day parties for every Autobot born within a month. Also following a human tradition, they used it as an excuse to get tanked. Blaster played DJ, Jazz did lights, certain crew members broke out their personal concoctions of high-grade, and practically everyone had a good time. It was at one such party where Wheeljack overheard the following exchange:

“Help me get Red Alert overcharged.”

“No.”

“Please, Sides,” Sunstreaker begged. “You know what he’s like when he’s overcharged.”

The pleasant buzz Wheeljack had cultivated during the evening instantly went sour.

Sideswipe continued to protest. “Exactly. The answer is no.”

“Come on, you know you like it. And I like it. And he definitely likes it. Don’t tell me you don’t want to have a good time.”

The engineer decided he was not tanked enough for this. He made a beeline for the energon bar, thankfully moving out of earshot of the pair. He took two cubes and picked a seat to sulk. Unfortunately, when he sat down, he was treated to a perfect view of Red Alert. The security chief was conversing with Inferno on the other side of the room.

 

He gulped down his high-grade and went back for more. 

When Wheeljack returned to his chair, he saw Sunstreaker had pulled Red Alert away from the fire engine, and was now chattering enthusiastically. The engineer scowled and began knocking back cubes in rapid succession. He was so focused in this endeavor that he didn’t notice Sunstreaker until the frontliner fell into his lap.

“Jaaaack—” he whined, throwing his arms around the Lancia’s neck. “Help me get Red Alert overcharged!”

Whoa. “No,” Wheeljack said. Self-control for the win.

Sunstreaker pouted. Honest-to-Primus, big goo-goo eyes and wobbly-lip POUTED. “Aw, but Red Alert is so fun when he’s tanked!” 

The Lamborghini was a highly attractive drunk. A very nearly irresistible drunk. Wheeljack was starting to regret all those cubes. 

Then Sunstreaker turned around and straddled him.

The engineer’s brain shorted out. His hands came up around Sunstreaker’s back, pulling their bodies flush.

Sunstreaker breathed into his audios. “Please…”

Scrap.

The next thing the Lancia knew, he was being dumped onto the floor of his quarters.

“Hey,” he groused, rolling over to face his assailant.

Though his visual input was blurred, his processor registered “Red Alert,” and recognized his facial expression as “disdain.” Hanging off the security chief’s shoulder was Sunstreaker. Wheeljack pushed himself up to object. Ugh. His arms wobbled, and he collapsed. Sunstreaker giggled and clung tighter to Red Alert, who slung an arm around the other Lamborghini’s waist.

The doors to his room slid shut.


	7. Tickle

A/N: We finally feature a gun that was not the result of horrible, horrible fps trauma.

Dirge’s systems stalled. In staccato bursts of movement, he curled over.

Not the reaction Sunstreaker was expecting when he shot him with the latest of Wheeljack-gifted toys, but whatever. He downed the conehead with a drop-kick and moved onto his next target. His optics met with Swindle’s. 

Decepticon encounters with the unconventionally-armed Autobot were commonly met with one of two strategies—bum-rush the yellow mech before he could shoot; or run out of range. In Swindle’s case, he ran. Shooting Decepticons in the back was not something that Autobots did. However, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe merrily flipped off Autobot policies on a regular basis, so the Lamborghini smirked and fired on the fleeing mech.

Swindle made a strangled noise and stumbled. Beset by what seemed to be a fit of rigorous coughing, he was unable to defend himself when Streetwise tackled him. 

A glint on the edge of Sunstreaker’s vision prompted him to turn and fire. The shot caught Onslaught dead-on. He halted for a precious second. With intakes stuttering, he aimed his blaster for Sunstreaker’s face and pulled the trigger. The yellow mech ducked the laser round, sprinted forward and disarmed his opponent with a quick strike.

 

Sunstreaker didn’t join the murmur of victorious post-battle posturing upon returning to base. He seemed distracted, and Bluestreak told him so.

“I was just thinking that I have no idea what this gun actually does. It doesn’t look like it actually hurt anyone, but all the Cons I shot with it reacted kind of differently,” the frontliner contemplated.

Bluestreak’s optics flickered from Sunstreaker’s quizzical expression to the gun in his hands, and reflexively cringed. Putting as much distance as possible between himself and anything Wheeljack touched was an ingrained survival reflex. The Lamborghini tossed the pistol and caught it between his fingers in a perfect shooting grip.

“Hey, how does this feel?” was all the warning Beachcomber got before Sunstreaker shot him.

The blue mech burst out in uproarious laughter. Nearby Autobots stopped to stare.

Very few things unnerved Sunstreaker, but he was officially creeped out. “Is this…a normal reaction for him?” he whispered to the sniper.

“That TICKLES!” Beachcomber gasped out, still chuckling. “Ha-ha! Hoo…what did you hit me with?”

Since Beachcomber wasn’t the sanest Cybertronian in Sunstreaker’s datapad, he picked another (conveniently nonmoving) victim and popped off a round.

Seaspray doubled up, laughing.

Sunstreaker gaped in befuddlement. “I can’t fragging believe this.”

“Look at it this way,” Bluestreak said, comfortingly. “It’s consistent after all.”

 

The Dinobots frequented a lake that was a little ways out from the base. They loved to fish and roughhouse in the water. However—

“Them Dinobots don’t leave me Sludge alone! Me Sludge just want to draw pretty lake!” the brontosaurus bemoaned.

Sunstreaker and Tracks “Hmm”ed and “No they didn’t!”ed and “That is so true!”ed and took Sludge to the lake.

The scenery at the lake was gorgeous in the mid-afternoon sun. Sludge roared with joy and stampeded down the hill. The other two bots exchanged a grin, and Tracks held out a fist.

SPLASH!

Their knuckles a mere six inches away from bumping, Tracks and Sunstreaker turned towards the noise. Sludge was half-submerged in the water, happily snapping up glittering fish. 

“You can take the Dinobot away from the cretins, but you can’t take the cretin out of a Dinobot,” the Corvette attested as they moved out of splashing range to set up.

“I hope he doesn’t bring us a fish.” Sunstreaker shuddered. “All those scales. Ew.”

Sludge eventually emerged from the water, happily covered in grit, scales, slime, bits of aquatic plants and microscopic organic life. There were definitely chunks of raw flesh stuck in his teeth. He was still smiling even when the two cars directed him to keep at least a quarter mile away from them for the duration of the afternoon. 

“If you mention Wheeljack one more time, I swear I’ll shove a can of spray paint up your tailpipe,” Tracks announced in the middle of a conversation.

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a mech who constantly gives you shiny new things,” retorted the Lamborghini.

“Is that why you like him?”

“What? You’ve been inhaling too much propellent. I don’t like him.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You’re nothing but ‘Wheeljack this’ and ‘Wheeljack that’ lately. He better be really good-looking under that mask.”

“See for yourself.” Not one to let his taste be insulted, Sunstreaker whipped out his datapad and made a quick sketch.

Tracks took the proffered item. “Not bad,” he said, surprised. “Though not as good-looking as me.” The number on the corner of the screen caught his optic. “Oh? You’ve been drawing a lot more lately.” Before Sunstreaker could protest, the body-painter flipped through the files. “You’ve been hanging around that backfire-brain too much if you’re drawing nothing but explosions.”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to capture those moments for posterity.”

The Corvette did a double-take. “Hold on. These aren’t abstracts? These are actual, REAL explosions?”

The yellow robot gave his frienemy a deadpan look. “Yeah. What kind of insane Cybertronian would imagine something like these?”

Tracks tabbed through the images more slowly. “Wheeljack blows up things in every color of the rainbow on a regular basis? Ooh, that’s an interesting shape. But why do you hang out in that lab all the time? There’s no way the stuff that goes on in there is good for your finish. Holy Primus, what spectrum is that in?!”

They poured over the contents of the pad until Tracks noticed the time.

“I have to go. Raoul and I are hitting the club scene tonight. You have to show me the rest of those pictures when I come back,” he said.

The Lamborghini grinned. “You can come by the lab anytime and see one firsthand.”

“No way, I’m too hot to die,” Tracks said flippantly, and drove off. 

 

“Did you drink the cubes I packed you?” Sunstreaker asked after Wheeljack and the science team returned from an investigative trip to the Smithsonian.

“It’s considered a crime to hack into someone else’s subspace pocket,” the engineer replied, irritably. “And there’s no way you did that yourself. Who helped you? Jazz? Red Alert?”

“I actually have permission. There’s some sort of official statement with a lot of long boring words Prowl has stashed away somewhere, if you want to check,” Sunstreaker grinned. “Something to do with the ‘safety of the crew’ and ‘risk of human lives.’ I think there was a ‘for your well-being’ thrown in there too, because Ratchet had to sign it. He also told me how to manually override your blast mask. So, did you drink your cubes?” 

“…Yes.”

The white Lancia did not mention Hoist’s comment involving “bento”s and “girlfriend”s.


	8. Misfire

A/N: Here begins the awkward. It gets worse before it gets better. Also contains gratuitous use of more fanon.

Sunstreaker whooped in victory as the EMP missile hit its mark, shorting out and ceasing all Decepticon mining activity in the valley. Normally, Bluestreak took that sort of shot, but considering he was using an experimental launcher designed by Wheeljack, it was Sunstreaker who was perched on the cliff overlooking the battleground. He stood up, keeping his audios tuned for the sweet sound of Megatron’s vocalizers shouting, “Decepticons, retreat!”

What he got instead was Starscream’s grating shriek of, “Autobot scum!” before the cliff edge crumbled under a rain of laser fire.

“Wheeljack, catch!” Sunstreaker hastily radioed. He spun as he fell among the hail of shattered rock, aiming for the net he knew Wheeljack was carrying.

Wheeljack pulled the experimental holo-net mechanism from his subspace pocket and hurled it towards the cliff face. Proximity detectors blinked and the metal puck broke into four pieces that hurtled away from each other with a small bang. Each piece planted in the ground and projected four beams that coalesced in the air to form a hardlight net.

Which fizzled and blinked off.

Experimental. Right.

Wheeljack cursed, transformed into vehicle mode and sped towards where the net had failed. The Lancia went airborne as he transformed into robot-mode to catch the falling mech. They collided with each other and slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch. 

It hurt. It hurt all over. System warnings blared across Wheeljack’s HUD. Nothing he wasn’t used to. There was something more important to worry about.

“Sunstreaker?” he groaned. “Sunstreaker? Say something.”

“I…nngh…demand my own jetpack.”

 

“If I didn’t see it on such a regular basis, I would swear you have no motherboard, Wheeljack!” Ratchet scolded for the umpteenth time as he reconnected the last wire. He hadn’t stopped complaining since Wheeljack and Sunstreaker were both carried into the medbay. “You could have radioed Ironhide, or Brawn, or Cliffjumper, or by the Pit, even Optimus had his hands free. You may be so reinforced and modified that Primus himself can’t recognize you, but you’re still a lightweight racing build!”

“It was my net--” Wheeljack reasoned, before the medic cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’re free to go, but I better not see either of you in my medbay anytime soon!” the CMO ordered.

After the nonstop yelling, it was blessedly quiet. Sunstreaker, sporting fresh welds and a collection of dents, moved to sit next to Wheeljack on the berth. The engineer was double-checking his diagnostics. For awhile, neither broke the silence.

“Wheeljack,” Sunstreaker said, looking straight ahead at the wall. “Thanks. For catching me.”

The Lancia’s headfins glowed green. “Just doing what you said.”

“You know I didn’t mean it literally!” Sunstreaker turned to meet his companion’s optics. “So, I just wanted to say thank you, for putting yourself on the line like that.”

“Of course. We’re friends,” Wheejack cheerfully proclaimed.

At those words, Sunstreaker looked down. “About that…”

Their hands rested next to each other on the berth.

He steeled his resolve, and looked up again. “Have you ever thought of going out?”

Wheeljack opened his mouth.

“With me.” Sunstreaker finished.

Wheeljack closed his mouth.

“What I mean to say is--” the yellow Lamborghini’s processor stalled, but he forced the commands through. “Do you want to go out with me?”

The engineer chuckled. “Everyone wants to go out with you, Sunny. You must have hit your head harder than Ratchet thought.”

“Cut out the jokes, Jack! I want to be with you. Do you want to be with me?” he snapped, displaying the temper that made him infamous in the Autobot army.

The Lancia’s face went flat, and with all seriousness, he said, “No.”

Sunstreaker’s optics flashed with rage that usually sent Decepticons running. He leapt to his feet and struck.

His clenched fist stopped just short of Wheeljack’s nosecone.

Two pairs of optics met—one shocked, the other unreadable.

Wheeljack hadn’t realized the other left until the medbay doors were sliding shut behind him. Uncomprehending, he stared at the closed doors.

A loud “CLANG” reverberated through the room, accompanied by a sharp pain erupting across the back of the Lancia’s helm.

“OW! What the PIT?!” he shouted at Ratchet, who was fetching his wrench from where it had bounced.

“You are a colossal idiot. An idiot of epic proportions. That was—dare I say it—Starscream level of idiocy. Those two don’t let anyone get close to them,” the ambulance chided, crossing his arms while keeping the wrench in full view. “You managed to become one a privileged few, and you went and hurt him like that.”

“Sunstreaker?” Wheeljack looked at the medic incredulously. “You know the rumors, you know he gets around. I’m not going to be just another toy for him.”

“How long have you two been working together now? You should know him better than that.” Ratchet brandished his tool threateningly. The Lancia flinched. 

“It’s not just the rumors,” he protested. “I know he’s involved with Red Alert. I’ve seen them together.”

Ratchet took a sharp breath. After a beat, he plopped down next to his friend, and rapped his head lightly with the wrench. “Wheeljack. Sunstreaker and Red Alert are brothers. Triplets, in fact.”

“I think you hit me too hard that last time. My audio receptors are malfunctioning.”

“It’s a wonder how Sunstreaker gets you to take anything seriously.” The CMO made an approximation of rolling his eyes. “Think about it. Sideswipe and Red Alert are practically identical. It’s a sad testament to the Autobot army’s power of observation that almost no one’s noticed.”

Wheeljack’s motherboard, made to process quantum mechanics, test the limits of laws of physics and bend the rules of time, now ran this calculation:

Sideswipe + Sunstreaker = twins. Everyone knew that.

but

Sideswipe + Red Alert = twins. It was humiliatingly obvious.

so

Sideswipe + Sunstreaker + Red Alert = triplets.

hence

“I’m an idiot.”

Ratchet smiled wryly. “Good. Now we’re on the same page. So what are you still doing in my medbay?”

Wheeljack clambered to his feet and hobbled as fast as he was able.

A/N: Portrayal of Red Alert based on works by outerelf on fanfiction.net.

Yes, it is an awkward way to proposition someone. This is because my fiancée and I are both awkward geeks and our relationship is founded on cheesy one-liners and pure bluntness. Either that or not having the nerve to say anything. Hence, I’m not graceful at romance.


	9. Friendly Fire

A/N: Portrayal of Red Alert based on the work of outerelf on fanfiction.net

 

If he had any doubts that Red Alert was related to the Terror Twins, they were immediately quashed. Since he left his quarters in the morning, security cameras swiveled to follow him as he walked down the halls. There were supposedly no security cameras in the lab (due to replacement issues) but a picture of him picking his nose had somehow been taken and e-mailed to every member of the crew. He was suddenly scheduled for graveyard perimeter patrols. (When asked, Prowl gave him a perfectly sensible explanation involving scheduling snafus and, of course, security measures.) The doors for the rec room wouldn’t budge when he tried to enter, and he was disassembling the access panel when the doors slid effortlessly open to allow Huffer and Trailbreaker inside. It was a good thing Sideswipe was out of state on some goodwill mission, or he would have been a pile of scrap metal by then. Wheeljack had to contend with being stalked to death instead. And on top of that, Sunstreaker was nowhere to be found.

The feeling of optics boring into the back of his head did not disappear when he lay on his berth to recharge. No matter which way he turned, he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable sensation. At four in the morning, he had enough and drove to the security station. The cameras tracked his progress.

“Red Alert!”

Red Alert was there. He was always there. He was the one bot who ate less than Wheeljack, slept less than Optimus, and worked longer hours than Prowl. Jazz, also on that night’s security detail, raised an optic ridge, but Red Alert remained passive.

“Yes, Wheeljack?” the security director acknowledged, without looking away from the vidscreens.

“I want you to stop this. NOW.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are implying. If you could be more specific…?”

“The stalking! The graveyard shifts! The doors! When did you get a camera into my ROOM?!”

Wheeljack’s voice rose several octaves with each word, ending in a strangled squawk.

Red Alert was nonplussed. “I take that back. You made more sense when you were being broad. Go back to your quarters and sleep it off.”

The engineer gritted his teeth. “You know I can’t sleep because you’re watching me,” he ground out. “I can feel you watching me.”

The red and white Lamborghini turned to his coworker. “Jazz, I believe this mech is highly unstable. I want to get an evaluation from Smokescreen first thing tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, alright!” Wheeljack burst out. “I’m sorry about Sunstreaker! I’m sorry I hurt him.”

For the first time, Red Alert looked at Wheeljack. “Jazz,” he intoned, without breaking eye contact, “I saw something moving in sector C6. It might be Ravage. Please inspect the area.”

The saboteur looked very much like he wanted to stay. “Aw, Red, there’s nothing there. Now, what’s up with you and ole Jack?”

“If you’re not going to take the hint, then I’ll put this simply: GET OUT.”

Wheeljack hoped he was only imagining Red Alert’s horns sparking just now. 

“Fine!” Jazz held up his hands in placation. “If you wanted some privacy you could’ve just said ‘please,’” he added as the doors closed behind him.

Red Alert pulled out a small device and attached it to the wall just left of the doors.

“That takes care of Jazz,” he explained. “And now for you.”

Wheeljack definitely saw the resemblance. He’d never been on the receiving end of Red Alert’s Death Stare, and it possessed the same predatory glint as his brothers. That similarity was probably causing that litany of “no escape no escape” streaming through his subprocessor. 

“Red, I’m serious. Hook me up to a lie detector, extract my spark, or whatever you want. I really am sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I’ve been trying to find Sunstreaker so I can apologize, but I haven’t seen him all day.”

“Of course not.” Red Alert looked at him as though he were an overly-drooly human infant. “He doesn’t want to be found.”

“I gathered that,” Wheeljack snapped. “So will you help me find him?”

“First—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—but what are your intentions towards Sunstreaker?”

He was taken aback. He’d never paid much attention to his feelings towards the frontliner. He didn’t allow himself to pay any attention to his feelings about Sunstreaker, until almost two days ago. “Uh…” Hadn’t he done this before? Defending him against Grapple, or something? “I like him. He’s kind, he’s smart, he really cares, even though he’s really pushy about it—”

“Stop. I’m going to hurl.” The security chief scrutinized him. “You really like him.”

“Yes.” Had Red Alert always been this infuriating?

“And you rejected him. Why?”

Wheeljack winced. He’d already been dressed down once for his faulty reasoning. This wasn’t a beating he particularly wanted to repeat. “I thought he was with you.”

Red Alert’s face looked like he had a hundred things to say about that, and couldn’t decide which to unleash first. Wheeljack warily peered at his horns for any unpleasant reactions. The Lamborghini offlined his optics. Air cycled through his vents. In. Out.

Blue optics came back to life.

“Then there’s no problem,” he said, expression carefully neutral. “We’re not together. Sunstreaker is very, very single.”

“You could have fooled me, with all the vengeful creeper stalking,” Wheeljack retorted.

The Lamborhini grinned wolfishly. “You’re off the hook. Go find Sunstreaker and clear up whatever misunderstandings you two have. If you hurt him again, you know what I’m capable of. And the first thing I will do is turn this—”

He held up a recording device and pressed a button. “When did you put a camera into my ROOM?!” squealed Wheeljack’s tinny voice.

“—into a meme. Get it?” he finished solemnly. 

Wheeljack experimented with questionable combinations of dangerous compounds every day. He blew himself up on a regular basis and had the lives of the entire Autobot army put into his hands more times than he could count. He was a mech without fear. However, he added a mental note to his knowledge of the security chief: contents under pressure, handle with caution. 

The Lancia nodded. “Got it.” 

“Good.” 

Looking satisfied, Red Alert removed the mechanism he placed on the wall earlier, and commed Jazz. It seemed the interrogation was over, but Wheeljack wasn’t done.

“So you’ll tell me where to find him?” he prompted.

Red Alert snorted. “Only Sideswipe knows that.” 

The Lamborghini saw the engineer’s pathetic droop. “But I’ll tell you what. Come with me.”

They met Jazz just outside the command center doors. Red Alert waved his little device at the disgruntled saboteur. Wheeljack recognized it. It was a localized frequency disrupter—if anyone had been listening at the wall, they would have gotten a hefty dose of screechy garble.

The security chief led him to a door in one of the residential halls of the Ark.

“This is Sunstreaker’s and Sideswipe’s quarters. No matter where he is, he has to come back to recharge sometime,” Red Alert elaborated at Wheeljack’s baffled stare.

“Wow, thanks. This still doesn’t make up for the trauma you put me through today,” he couldn’t help ribbing. He would have thought of finding Sunstreaker’s room earlier, if he hadn’t been preoccupied with being stalked all day.

Red Alert raised an optic ridge. “It’s not supposed to. But you do need a decent recharge if you’re going to apologize to Sunstreaker, so you can at least defend yourself properly when he rips your legs off.”

For all the damage he had (directly and indirectly) inflicted on Sunstreaker, the volatile mech had never harmed him in return. Wheeljack realized this sometime after his enlightening exchange with Ratchet, but decided not to bring it up. He affirmed his choice when, in a blatant abuse of power, Red Alert overrode Wheeljack’s key code to enter the engineer’s personal quarters. He ducked under the berth.

Wheeljack mentally kicked himself. That was the first place he should have checked. Red Alert’s mind games really messed with his head.

Red Alert came back up, secreting something in his subspace pocket. “There. Now you should be able to recharge peacefully.”

Wheeljack noted the location it had been placed. “That wasn’t a camera.” Unless the security chief had broken out the x-ray cameras because he was special. “What was that?”

Red Alert ignored him. “Good night, Wheeljack.”

“And what about the camera in my lab? Are you going to remove that, too?” He couldn’t help but push limits. It’s what made him good at his job.

“No.” He was facing away, but Wheeljack caught a hint of a smile forming. “Get some rest. Think of a way to fix this.”

The engineer didn’t talk back this time. He was accustomed to taking orders from obnoxious Lamborghinis.


	10. Jetpack

“Jack.”

Sunstreaker stood in the lab entry. His paint was perfect, and he was polished and buffed like always. He held up a bright yellow jetpack. It was tied with a red bow. “Is this a ‘let’s-be-friends’ present? Because I don’t accept that sort of thing.”

He made to dash it onto the floor.

“Don’t—” 

Suddenly, Wheeljack was standing in front of him, blocking his throw. “Sunstreaker, don’t.”

“Get out of my way,” the frontliner snarled, and tried ducking around the Lancia.

Wheeljack grabbed him, pinning Sunstreaker’s arms to his sides. “Sunny, listen. I don’t want—wait, that’s wrong…”

The yellow Lamborghini snarled and wrenched away from the engineer’s grip. Wheeljack grabbed hold again, enveloping Sunstreaker in a tight bear hug.

“You’re not listening! I like you, Sunstreaker!”

Sunstreaker shoved the Lancia off of him, but he made no move to destroy the jetpack. “You ‘like me’? What’s that supposed to mean?” he spat.

Wheeljack preferred not to do this in the hallway. He stepped back into the lab, thanking Primus when the frontliner followed suit.

“I’m sorry about the other day.” He’d said sorry so many times in the past forty-eight hours that he was sick of it, but it still wasn’t enough. “When you said…I panicked. You take a lot of bots to berth.”

“So what? You think I’m a skank?”

“No! I thought you that you thought I was a skank. I mean, I thought you were fooling around. Just—ask me again.”

Sunstreaker’s mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t have time for this.”

Wheeljack caught him before he could leave. “What you said in the medbay. Ask me again.”

The Lamborghini was thoroughly confused and more than a little pissed off, and like every other time it came to Wheeljack, he didn’t know why he complied. “Do you want to go out with me?”

“Yes.”

It crossed Sunstreaker’s mind that he might need a defrag and a reboot, because that did not just happen.

“Yes,” Wheeljack said again. He took advantage of the yellow bot’s stunned state to spin him in a little dance around the lab, forcing Sunstreaker to grab hold of his shoulder for balance. “The jetpack is a ‘I’m sorry’ present. Will you take me back?”

“You-you aft!” Sunstreaker sputtered. 

He sharply tapped the manual override for Wheeljack’s blast mask, which obediently retracted. The Lancia resigned himself to the inevitable punch.

Sunstreaker kissed him.

Wheeljack’s internal chronometer told him they parted after only a few seconds, but he suspected time froze when he wasn’t paying attention.

“So, you’ll keep helping out in the lab and testing my products?”

“Is that all you care about?” Sunstreaker responded, incredulous.

Somehow they had ended up with their chest plates pressed together, and Sunstreaker bent backwards over a lab bench. 

“Before we continue, I just thought you should know Red Alert’s got a camera hidden somewhere in my lab. I haven’t found it, so the best way to get rid of it is to blow the entire place sky-high. Want to help me?”

Sunstreaker smirked. “Much as I love your penchant for wanton destruction, he’s always going to have more cameras. Let him watch.”

He pulled the engineer back down.

 

Omake:

Wheeljack dodged a clumsy tackle from Drag Strip and plugged him with a few rounds to keep him down. A few yards away, he caught sight of Red Alert pinned under Dead End. Before Wheeljack could help, the red-and-white Lamborghini grabbed his opponent’s arm and flipped the both of them over so that Red Alert was sitting on Dead End’s face. 

Wheeljack whistled. So they really had been sparring.

Then Red Alert pulled both of Dead End’s arms towards him, and bounced backwards onto the Stunticon’s stomach. Hard.

Wheeljack winced.

 

A/N: Sideswipe was thankfully out on a diplomatic mission during this debacle. Otherwise with both Red Alert and Sideswipe on his case, Wheeljack theoretically had no way of surviving this story.


	11. Bonus:  Poof

A/N: Here's a few bonus scenes, featuring more Red Alert and his weirdness. Once again, characterization of Red Alert is based on his portrayal by outerelf on fanfiction.net

 

What Really Happened At The Party:

“Hey! Hey, Red!”

Red Alert cursed under his breath. Sunstreaker had interrupted him more than times than he could count tonight and there was no way he was going to let his night be ruined by--

“Wheeljack?”

“Reporting for duty!” the Autobot in question saluted—with the hand he was holding an energon cube in.

Red Alert strategically flinched away from the sloshed liquid and into Inferno’s broad chest. He mentally smirked as he felt the fire engine’s arms curl around him. It seemed he owed the engineer a favor later.

“You’re alwaysh sho sherious, Red! Here, have a drink!” Wheeljack merrily thrust his cube at the security chief, further spilling its contents. 

It was a good excuse to bury himself further in Inferno’s strong arms, but if Red Alert wanted to continue, Wheeljack would have to go.

“Thank you for the offer Wheeljack, but I already have a drink,” he indicated the cubes that he and Inferno were holding.

“Oh thatsh nothing, have another!” the Lancia pressed.

“I don’t want another.”

“You should have another. You too, Inferno!” Wheeljack continued, encouraged by Inferno’s expression of gentle amusement. “Join the party!”

Red Alert’s patience was worn thin under Sunstreaker’s earlier persistence, leaving Wheeljack with precious little left to snap. “Go away, Wheeljack, you’re tanked.” 

“If you get tanked too, then we’ll all be tanked together!”

“We appreciate the sentiment,” Inferno finally came to his rescue, “but we both have first shift tomorrow, and I’d rather not face Prowl with a hangover.”

“A little more’sh not gonna hurt!”

The Lamborghini never remembered Wheeljack being this tenacious of a drunk. Had their energon supply been compromised? Did a Decepticon slip past the Ark’s security and drug them all? He turned around—and spotted a flash of yellow and red. It clicked.

“Did Sunstreaker put you up to this?”

“Yep!” the engineer hiccupped. “He shaid if I got you good and overcharged, then—”

“Excuse me,” Red Alert grasped Wheeljack’s arm and dragged him to where he’d glimpsed his fellow Lamborghinis. “Ahem.”

Twin faces peered out from under the table.

“It was his idea,” Sideswipe jabbed a finger towards Sunstreaker.

“Yes, it was,” the yellow Lamborghini declared proudly, and faltered as he tried to leave the confines of his shelter. He saw a hand, grabbed it, and was pulled up to find himself optic to optic with Wheeljack.

Sunstreaker grinned. “Hi.”

Wheeljack blinked. “Hi.”

Sideswipe gagged.

Red Alert’s horns threw a spark. “Party’s over, you’re all going to bed. Get up.” He yanked Sideswiped from where he was still crouched and maneuvered the three tanked mechs to the door. On the way out, he passed Inferno, who smiled curiously and waved. In spite of his foul mood, Red Alert couldn’t help but smile back.

Then he was out of sight and Red Alert went back to being pissed.

Sideswipe retched. “I gotta—” 

A hand flew towards his mouth and he ran off.

“Wait, take Sunstreaker with—!” Red Alert started but he was already gone.

Great, just great. He shifted Sunstreaker to his right and Wheeljack to his left so they would stop pawing at each other, and continued on his way.

“You really need to shee Red when he’sh tanked,” Sunstreaker prattled. “He’sh sho fun, you have no idea what he’sh like!”

“Buh-but Sunstreaker,” Wheeljack pouted, “I’m not that type of mech.”

Sunstreaker blinked, then a lascivious grin spread across his face. “I’m that type of mech,” he purred.

Wheeljack’s room, thank Primus! Red Alert overrode the door code and practically threw the engineer inside. That was two down.

Sunstreaker giggled and draped himself over Red Alert’s shoulder. “Re-d! Let’sh go do shometing fun!”

That favor Red Alert was thinking of offering to Wheeljack? Retracted. 

 

What Happened At The Following Party:

“Everything seems fine to me, Prowl,” Red Alert replied. “You’ve had a long day.”

“You know, you’re right,” Prowl conceded. “I might just be tired. I’m going to turn in early.”

“Rest well!” the Lamborghini called as the Datsun left the party.

As soon as Prowl was around the corner, Red Alert dissolved into giggles and slumped against Inferno. “Told you I could do it!” he chortled to a stunned Wheeljack. “Now pay up those creds!”

“No one as tanked as you should be able to play sober that well,” Wheeljack grumbled during the exchange.

“You should have noticed when we didn’t throw our bets in,” Sideswipe lectured, with Sunstreaker nodding sagely.

“But he’s not this...this is so…Red Alert’s not usually…”

“Fun?” Sideswipe and Sunstreaker chimed in unison.

“Hey, I fooled Prowl, when I could have told him you altered the high-grade,” Red Alert said pointedly. “Which if you ever do again, by the way, I’ll give you a real reason to wear that mask.” He smirked. “The way I see it, you owe me one.”

‘Intimidating,’ was the word the engineer was looking for. ‘Cunning. Malevolent.’

“Listen close, boys,” the security chief drew his brothers in a huddle. “I have a way to nail both Prime and Megs with one prank…”

The next day…

Optimus Prime’s gun discharged a chalk bomb instead of its normal laser rain, coating both him and Megatron with pink power and violet glitter.

 

A/N: this is the end, because I try to comply as much as possible with cartoon canon and no one has a happy ending in 2005. Thank you for reading. For more TF awesomeness, check out the authors I previously referenced.


End file.
